“Then don’t.”
She made it sound so simple. “I should let you go.”
“I don’t want you to.”
He told himself it was because of all she would gain by becoming his mistress. When he was done with her, she would have wealth, power—and if she played her cards right—influence. And the freedom to do any damn thing she wanted.
“Make me your mistress in truth,” she rasped, and the wisps of her smoky voice swirled through the charred remains of his blackened soul.
Adeep feral groan hung on the air as his mouth blanketed hers before she took her next breath. Her arms were almost around his shoulders before she recalled his first rule and dropped them to her side. Oh, she wanted to touch him, hold him, secure him to her because she was in danger of melting into the floor.
No gentleness, no kindness. He would not bestow those upon her, but the dark and needy way in which he devoured her heated her blood, weakened her knees, sent pleasure cascading from her head to her toes.
She wasn’t exactly sure when she’d decided that she wanted him, that she cared little about her ruination. She only knew that she desired him. They were two lonely souls cast aside by Society. Surely they could find solace within each other.
He drew back, and the ice that was usually in his eyes was gone, replaced by smoldering embers. The blue was a richer hue, like the hottest flames at the base of a fire. “I must have you, Eve,” he growled.
Nodding, she licked her lips, tasted his Scotch and him lingering there.
“Just remember my rule.”
“I won’t hold you.”
He swept her into his arms and began marching from the room. She wanted desperately to wind an arm around his neck, to stroke his jaw. “What am I allowed?”
“Nothing.” He strode down the hallway. “Just take the pleasure, don’t try to give it.”
“What if I leaned in and kissed your neck?”
He gave her a quick glance, his eyes clashing with hers, before he started up the stairs. “No.”
She wanted to ask him why, to uncover what had happened to make it so he couldn’t bear her touching him—no, not her, anyone. She realized now with resounding clarity that the night he had carried her through the rain, he hadn’t been urging her on as she’d originally thought. He’d been urging himself on. Whatever had happened to him? But now was not the time to poke, pry, and prod. But she would. After tonight, this distance between them could not remain. After tonight, everything would change.
He shouldered open the door and made his way inside, kicking it closed behind him. Gently he set her on the bed as though she were capable of breaking. Then he began tearing at his clothes. She heard linen rip and buttons ping as they scattered over the floor. She thought she should be frightened by the frenzy, but instead she was fascinated that she could elicit such a reaction from a man. That he was fairly mad with wanting her.
It was a heady realization as she rose up on an elbow to watch him. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He balanced on one foot, jerked off his boot, cast aside his stocking, before moving on to the other side.
He freed two buttons on his trousers before he stopped, looked at her. Her mouth had gone dry, her heart was beating as though it would fly from her chest. He was breathing heavily. She could see a fine sheen of sweat forming on his brow.
“Close your eyes if you like.” His roughened voice caused prickles to form over her skin.
He was flawless. Skin and muscle tight on bone. Shaking her head, she dared to say what she hadn’t the courage to reveal the night before when he’d taken her to the boxing room. “I think you’re beautiful.”
He released a huff of air that might have been a laugh. Then his fingers made short work of the remaining buttons and he shoved down his trousers. Desire nearly swamped her. She wanted to touch. All of him. Badly. She thought she should be frightened by his jutting manhood. It was the only term she knew, but it somehow seemed wrong when applied to Rafe. His required a stronger, more powerful word. Yes, he could very well hurt her, but she wasn’t afraid.
His legs were long, corded muscles—a puckered scar on his right thigh. She sat up. “What happened there?”
“Later,” he said, walking toward her. “I’ll tell you later.”
Would he? Would he finally start talking to her in truth, telling her everything about him, his past, his present, his dreams for the future? Did he have goals and ambitions? She had so many questions, but they could wait, they could all wait.
When he reached the bed, he brought with him the fragrance of male, perhaps of sex, musky, not unpleasant. With a hand on her shoulder, he guided her back down to the pillows. He closed his fists around the top of her nightdress, then ripped it asunder from collar to hem, spreading it wide, until she was as exposed as he.
“Oh, dear God, I knew you would be ...”
His voice trailed off, and she wondered what word he might have used, but based on the appreciation that lit his eyes, the faintest upturn of his lips, he was pleased.
“Shall I roll over now?” she asked, her voice thready.
